


Meaningless Martyrdom

by beneaththeskin



Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: Depression, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, M/M, POV First Person, POV Jean Kirstein, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Self-Esteem Issues, Self-Harm, Self-Hatred, probly bit by bit updates, trigger warning: please be careful when reading and put your wellbeing first
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-12-18
Updated: 2016-04-04
Packaged: 2018-05-07 12:02:50
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,875
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5455820
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/beneaththeskin/pseuds/beneaththeskin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>sorry i tend to write in small parts so i'll start with adding to this chapter as i write, cause i feel the chapters would be too short otherwise. but then again i'd like to update right when i finish the next bit. i'll part it into the next chapter once the story has more of a clear break.</p>
    </blockquote>





	1. Bleak

**Author's Note:**

> sorry i tend to write in small parts so i'll start with adding to this chapter as i write, cause i feel the chapters would be too short otherwise. but then again i'd like to update right when i finish the next bit. i'll part it into the next chapter once the story has more of a clear break.

I don’t like the rain. I mean, I love it, but it brings forth in me the undying urge to wander off and just lay somewhere, not exist. That’s generally not a good idea. Especially with this kind of downpour.

I guess that’s slightly late to realize when I’m overlooking the turbulent night waves and utterly soaked already.               

Not the best time to have mental arguments with myself. I might have to reconsider my life choices.

At least I’m calmer now. Though I’m cold.

I turn my gaze from the skyline back up towards the clouds, and just let the raindrops fall freely on my face. I’m tired. Still cold. Numb. At least the coldness of the rain slightly eases the residual stinging in my eyes. It vaguely registers that I’m still lying down on the sand, but the thought leaves me just as quickly. I don’t bother moving my limbs, as it barely even feels like they’re there from the exhaustion buried deep within them. The streams running down into my ears feel like tears, and I’m not entirely sure that they’re not.

I’m not sure how long I’ve been here, and I’m not sure I want to move. But I do, not entirely sure why I even exert the effort. The streetlights aren’t much more than subtly glowing blobs in my peripheral vision on the way back, my legs feeling leaden heavy.

Most of the way is a blur, as I’m trying to block out why I got here and why I dread to go back. _Don’t think about it. Stop. This is for the best._ _My wallowing isn’t helping anyone._

But how do I stop thinking about it when the first thing I’ll see as I open my door in a minute is his face?

 

I’m past the hallway, slow on my feet, and by the time I reach the door to our room, my pulse is in my ears. The rush of adrenaline almost hurts, making me wish for nothing more than to just stop feeling anything. There’s something twisting itself into knots in my chest, and I feel like clawing in there and ripping it right out along with everything else.

I try to level my breathing as I reach for my keys, but my hands fumble and my fingers hesitate. _What expression will he have? Will he be angry? Will he be sad?_ My face cringes just from the thought. The last thing I’d ever want would be to hurt him.

_Stop thinking. Move._

I try to convince myself that I’m ready to face him, unlocking the door and dragging it open while resisting just squeezing my eyes shut.

I brace myself for impact, but there is none.

I hold my breath for a few moments, but he doesn’t seem to be here. The slight relief that washes over me is instantly accompanied by immense guilt. I would never want him gone, why would I even think like that?

I don’t have time to collect myself or figure out how to feel, as I’m apprehended by my neighbor Connie instead. I probably look like quite something, as I see a myriad of expressions pass his face, some of which I’m not quite able to catch. Nor do I have the mind to close my mouth. I hitch in breaths but I can’t force any words out.

He looks me up and down for a moment longer, running his hand over his buzz cut.

“Marco, uh, went to look for you,” he says, looking at me, then away.

The words carve unexpectedly deep into me, twisting like I imagine a knife might. It hurts. My lungs feel like they’re filled with acid and I can’t get oxygen to flow into them. _I caused him trouble. I made him worry. I probably hurt him. No matter how hard I try I’m nothing but bad for him. It’s my fault._ I look down at myself, still dripping water and undoubtedly dirty. I'm half-glad I can’t smell it. My brows are knit together, I can’t force them to relax.

“I’ll call him to come back,” Connie sighs, offering me a half-smile, “can you go take a shower? You look like shit,” he laughs, but his words have no bite to them.

“Thanks,” I snort, a corner of my lip twitching upwards, but a bitter taste on my tongue.

 

The shower goes on autopilot. I barely register what I’m doing, with the storm of thoughts wrecking my head. _Why am I so fucking stupid, I’ve always known it would come to this, haven’t I? Everyone I get close to will get hurt. So don’t get close. Why did I?_

Connie probably knows I’d just recede to Marco and I’s room to hide away, if given the chance, as he’s waiting perched on the doorframe.

“I made tea,” he points towards the kitchen.

I’ve only minimally dried myself, and likely still look worse for the wear even in clean clothes, but I oblige him. I don’t have the mental strength left to protest, so I don’t.

I sit behind the kitchen table heavily, forcing myself to swallow against the lump in my throat. It doesn't budge.

Connie follows me but doesn’t sit down himself. Even his pouring out a cup of tea for me sends a pang of guilt through me. _Don’t be careful with me. It’s all my fault. I don’t deserve it._

“He should be back soon-,” Connie starts, but he halts at my grimace. I clench my teeth in an effort to just _manage_ , but the dread is seeping right back into me at the thought of having to face Marco.

“Look. I don’t know what happened between you two, but you really scared us.”

I grind my short nails into my thighs to try and distract myself, but it’s not working in the least.

“You don’t have to talk to _us_ , I get that, but please at least hear him out. Let him help you.”

I don’t look at him. I can’t. I just _know_ the kind of sad face he must be making from his soft sigh. I can’t take the pity.

And then I hear the click of the lock from the direction of the front door and my heart just about stops.

 

 

I’m frozen solid. I breathe in and in but I’m not getting any air. My mind is black.

I don’t have to look. I know these soft footsteps. How I love them, but right now I feel my fight or flight instinct violently kicking in.

I imagine maybe if I stay completely still, he won’t see me.

Of course he does.

I curl further in on myself. I’m not short, but I feel small. I still see him in my peripheral vision as he crouches down in front of me, chin level with the table. I want to close my eyes but I can’t. I want to see him but I can’t bring myself to look directly.

_I have to make him hate me. It’s for his own sake. I’m not good for him. I’m not good for anyone._

I look down in my untouched tea, feeling my eyes glaze over. It hurts.

“Jean,” he says softly, tentatively, and I wonder if he has any idea what hearing my name leave his lips does to me. I never liked my name. But when it’s him, it’s for other reasons that I don’t want to hear it.

I know he cares, of course I know that. But I don’t want him to. If I cut the string, it shouldn’t hurt him anymore.

_Right?_

I open my mouth but my breath catches. _I have to say something mean._ I can’t.

I would hurt him so I wouldn’t hurt him.

Even if it’s for the best, I can’t do it.

I can’t help the “sorry” I grit through my teeth, looking at my palms in front of me.

_I’m so weak._

_I only want what’s best for him, but I’m not it._

“I’m sorry.”

“Jean,” he almost whispers again, leaning over the table on his forearms. His skin looks clammy. The realization hits me that he was out there, looking for me, and got drenched. _Because of me._

I should be the one still in my wet clothes here.

“There’s nothing to apologize for,” he sighs.

_No you don’t understand._

A moment passes where I just hear us both breathe. My gaze isn’t really focused on anything in particular.

_You don’t understand. If I were to apologize for every single thing, I’d never stop apologizing._

His small voice halts my train of thought.

“I’m sorry, I-…” he says tentatively, almost as if he already regrets the words before even getting them out, “I already knew. Before.”

_What?_

My resolve wavers and I catch a glimpse of his eyes and the freckles on the bridge of his nose. His hands are barely an inch from mine. He’s so close.

He looks down, eyebrows knit together like he feels guilty for it.

“I didn’t mean to. I, uh,” he laces his fingers together, “I’ve seen the scars, before. On your forearms.”

I’m just stunned in shock. I thought I hid it well. I wear long sleeves. The scars aren’t that obvious at all. Nobody else has told me anything about it, so I thought nobody’d noticed.

The realization that maybe others have as well hits me all at once, like icy stinging all over.

Something must have shown on my face, judging from his small gasp.

“I’m really, really sorry. I didn’t want to force you into this position, and you don’t have to say or explain anything.” He takes a deep breath and exhales it a bit shakily. “I just wanted to say that it’s okay, I don’t think of you any differently because of it. And I haven’t and won’t tell anyone.”

I want to sink further into myself.

A part of me is relieved, despite myself. But most of me feels that this doesn’t change anything.

I’m a mess, a huge mess of a person. I’ve always known I’m emotionally heavy. Too heavy.

I couldn’t live with myself knowing he broke under my weight.

I can’t put this in words for him so I just lower my forehead between my elbows, fingers stuck in my hair, tugging anxiously.

Why am I relieved that he doesn’t seem to hate me for it. It would be so easy to hate me. That’s his weakness. He cares about people more than is good for him.

Before I realize, he’s gently placed his hand on my shoulder, like he always does, but I can’t help but flinch away.

“D-, don’t. Please. I’m sorry.”

_Don’t be kind to me. Please. I don’t deserve it. Especially not from you._

I feel so awful for actually – deep down – wanting him to comfort me. And I know he means well. And I don’t want to make him feel rejected.

I can still feel the tension in the air, though he doesn’t press the subject any further. I’m really grateful for everything – his attitude, his acceptance, his trying to be here for me. I’m so deeply grateful, but I can’t accept it.

We’re silent for a while, and I don’t think either of us move much at all.

Weirdly, his presence still calms me.

To both of our surprise, I’m the one to finally break the silence.

“We should go to sleep.” I sniffle lightly, though there’d been no more tears. My voice feels rough, as if I’d overused it, though I’d barely said anything at all. “I’m sorry you had to come after me.”

“Don’t worry about it,” he said immediately, though I think he too knew I would anyway.

The tea was left there as it was, and we went to our room with an out-of-place level of carefulness. The sore kind you’d feel after hearing sounds that are too loud, or seeing light that’s too bright, that leaves you not daring to move too suddenly.

I feel like there are still questions left on his tongue, or something he’d still want to say. But if so, he doesn’t act on it. I’m ever more grateful.

I feel like I’ve pulled consecutive all-nighters, all within this one evening.

I’m buried with my face in my pillow, the covers up to my ears.

I can hear him change out of his wet clothes, and I feel the stabbing need to tell him to go take a warm shower and not mind me when I hear him get in his bed across the room from me. If it was anyone other than him, there’s no way I’d think this, but I feel he’s neglecting his own needs so he wouldn’t have to leave me alone in the room. I feel like I’m delusional for thinking so but I also strongly feel that it’s probably truthful. The feeling aches in my chest numbly but widely, making it difficult to breathe again.

I have to figure out what’s best for him, not for me.

We don’t say anything after that. I’m left with my thoughts, before wearily passing out.

 

To my late realization, I never noticed when Connie had left.


	2. Serene

I feel like I have a massive hangover.

I’m sore in various places and my eyes feel like they’ve been rubbed raw. This hasn’t happened in such a long time I almost forgot what it feels like.

It seems to be morning already, judging from the sunlight starting to seep in from the window.

He seems to be asleep though, as his breathing is still slow and steady.

I don’t want to acknowledge the start of a new day yet, so I just lay still as well. It would probably hurt my head to move anyway.

Last night was a mess.

It started out as a quiet Friday evening, with me, him and our over-the-kitchen neighbors Connie and Sasha. They’re a cute couple and fun to be around, though quite overly energetic. At first glance you’d likely think that they’re a pair of unbelievable idiots, but they’re actually impossibly perceptive. But I guess that’s why they’re a really good match. I think basically everybody else in the dorm knew before they did that they were dating.

Nothing much was happening, we were just playing cards, everyone drinking except him. He tends to pass on alcohol when offered, but I haven’t pestered him as to why. He doesn’t look exactly like he’d actually want to drink, more that there’s something akin to sorrow or hurt in his expression. I wouldn’t want to push him. It’s better not to drink anyway, it can mess you up in different ways. I don’t often anymore either, and whey I do, then not much. We’re just past the exam session and going into the spring semester, so I’m allowing myself some well-deserved time off.

I was sitting across from him at our kitchen table, and everything was fine. I was fine. I think he was too. We were talking, making jokes, laughing. Everything was normal.

Until is suddenly wasn’t.

My gaze was fixed on his face, trying to figure out why his expression looked so dark now. What went wrong? He looked sad. Why did he look sad? I don’t understand.

His eyes were lowered, looking at his hands on the table, holding the cards.

But then I noticed he wasn’t looking at his, he was looking at mine.

I glanced down and saw that my sleeve had ridden up slightly, revealing some of the scars on my wrist.

I could see him biting into the inside of his cheek and wincing.

And then our eyes met, and his face fell like I’d just caught him with his hand down his pants.

I realized immediately that he knew. He didn’t just see it, he understood what he was seeing.

He opened his mouth like he wanted to say something but there were no words, and I couldn’t stay there and wait for them to form.

Next thing I knew I was up, clattering the chair behind me, and everything blurred.

I couldn’t breathe.

My eyes were out of focus.

I could hear him say my name, and I could hear Connie saying something, and I was stumbling over my own feet, but all I could think of was that I needed out. Just _out._

I don’t remember putting my shoes on, but apparently I did, and I was running, and running, and cold, and wet, and my clothes were sticking to my skin, and then the ground hit me.

Everything felt wrong. Everything _was_ wrong.

I’m not normal like them. I can’t act like I am.

Someone like me is not good for someone like him.

I almost remember myself wailing into my arms, but it doesn’t even feel like that really happened.

I have to remind myself that even though I sometimes feel more-or-less stable, that’s just the brittle layer covering the void. I’m not worth him. He just makes me feel like I am. He thinks way too highly of me.

I would ruin his life.

 

[sorry this is still an unfinished chapter but i had it sitting here for a while]


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